


Choked Out (By The Red String Of Fate)

by xlightless



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - Yakuza, Angst, Assassins & Hitmen, Gang Violence, M/M, Reincarnation, Slow Burn, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-10 17:25:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11696388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xlightless/pseuds/xlightless
Summary: In logic and probability theory, two events are mutually exclusive or disjoint if they cannot both occur. A clear example is the set of outcomes of a single coin toss, which can result in either Akira Kurusu or Goro Akechi, but never Akira KurusuandGoro Akechi.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: contains late game spoilers.

_Akira’s heart beats in his throat, constricting so tight he can’t even speak. His breaths come out in short gasps. His gaze travels up the muzzle silencer attached to the pistol pressed against his forehead, up the gloved hand gripping the pistol so hard it’s shaking, up the long arm that trembles beneath a tan coat, all the way up the shoulder to Goro’s smug smirk._

_“That trivial righteousness that you’ve paraded around? This is how such idiocy ends.”_

_Goro pulls the trigger and Akira flies out of his seat from the impact, falling to the floor with a graceless thud. He doesn’t die immediately, and the fire that spreads from his head throughout his body burns so fiercely that he wants to scream._

Akira’s eyes fly open. He takes a couple moments to calm his breathing, and he swears he could still feel the faint sting of the gun shot right in the center of his forehead. He uncurls his clammy fists from his sheets, his fingers aching from how hard he’d been gripping them. He lets out a shaky breath as he brings his palms up to rub the sleep from his eyes. When he opens his eyes again, he sees stars blink in his ceiling. He sits up and turns to look at his window. Pale gray light floods from behind the curtains. It’s still early.

Akira falls back into his pillow, and for a moment his bed almost feels like the cold interrogation floor instead. Recently, these dreams have been coming more frequently. He doesn’t know where they came from, but they’re too vivid to be ignored.

The phone rings and Akira picks his phone up off the bedside table. He squints into the bright screen and groans when he sees it’s from Iwai.

“You’re up early,” Iwai simply says.

“Would have woken up anyways,” Akira grumbles, sitting up again. He pinches the bridge of his nose as he squeezes his eyes shut. “What’s up?”

There’s the sound of shuffling papers on Iwai’s side. “Got a job for you.”

Akira hums, standing up and stretching with a soft groan before replying. “Who is it?”

Iwai shuffles some more papers. “A politician named Masayoshi Shido. He’s been ordering hits on potential competition.”

Akira walks into the bathroom. He nestles his phone in between his ear and shoulder as he pees. “Fascinating. Tell me more.”

“And someone’s asked us to take care of him.”

Akira hums, flushing the toilet and washing his hands. “The potential competition?”

Iwai scoffs. “Absolutely.”

Akira walks out into the kitchen for something to eat. “Will you be coming over to discuss the details?”

“I’m already on my way over.”

Akira frowns, gazing at the mess of paperwork on his tiny dining table to the books strewn out across his living room floor and coffee table. “Lovely.”

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Be presentable,” Iwai says before ending the call.

Akira slams his fridge shut and begins cleaning up. He’s heard of Masayoshi Shido very briefly in the news and the promotional vans that occasionally make their rounds through the neighborhood during election season. Shido isn’t the first corrupt politician, but resorting to assassination is a first, at least the first that Akira’s heard of. His blood boils at the thought of Shido ordering the thoughtless slaughter of other human beings just for the sake of furthering his own ambitions.

Ten minutes later, Akira examines the living room with a sigh. He wasn’t able to fit all the books back into the shelves and had to make a stack on the floor. It’s not the cleanest, but it’s better than it was before. His stomach growls, and he heads back into his kitchen again to look for food. Before he can, Iwai knocks on his door. He fights the groan that threatens to come out of his mouth as he walks to the front door.

Akira swings the door open and smiles at Iwai. In the lights of the hall, his short gray hair almost glimmers. He holds a manila folder under one arm, no doubt containing information about Masayoshi Shido, and a paper bag in his other hand. Iwai stares at Akira with a frown on his face, which is actually pretty normal for Iwai, but his stare seems more judgmental this time.

“What?” Akira asks, stepping aside to let Iwai through.

Iwai sits at the dining table and opens the manila folder to take out the papers inside, all without looking at Akira. “Is that what you call ‘presentable’?”

Akira blinks and realizes he forgot to put on a shirt because he was too occupied with cleaning up. He grins, only half-joking. “You mean this isn't doing anything for you?"

Iwai looks up at Akira, wholly unimpressed.

"I was a little busy cleaning the place," Akira says, heading into his room for a shirt.

Iwai looks at Akira disappear behind the door, then the stack of books on the floor by the shelf. “You reading up on dream interpretations? And reincarnation?”

Akira frowns as he walks back out, straightening the shirt. He can’t think about that right now. “Just some readings for class.”

Iwai doesn’t look convinced, or that’s what Akira feels, but he doesn’t say anything else about the books. He nods to the paper bag he set down at the corner of the table. “Sweet potatoes in there. Help yourself.”

Akira sits across from Iwai and opens the paper bag. Steam curls up, fogging his glasses, and he takes them off before grabbing a foil-wrapped sweet potato. His stomach growls at the scent as he unwraps it.

Iwai raises an eyebrow, but Akira refuses to acknowledge it, hoping to avoid another conversation about his irregular eating habits. “Anyway, Masayoshi Shido.”

Akira chews on the potato and picks up the photo closest to him. Shido stands by a car, surrounded by a throng of bodyguards, but Akira freezes. A familiar young man with light brown hair stands beside Shido and talks to him, his arms crossed above his chest with a charmingly delicate smile on his face. Akira is suddenly in that interrogation room again, his mind spinning from a drug overdose, with Goro Akechi pointing a pistol at him. His head pounds, a sharp and burning pain that starts at the center of his forehead.

“He plans–– Hey, are you alright?” Iwai asks.

Akira looks up, blinking as the edges of his vision stop blurring and return to normal. He swallows the chunk of potato, placing the photo back down on the pile, and smiles. “Yeah, I’m fine. I didn’t get what you said, though. Sorry, potato’s too good.”

Once again, Iwai doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t say anything else, to Akira’s relief. Iwai is too perceptive for Akira’s lies to slip past, and Akira prides himself in being a pretty good liar; he had overprotective parents and a fairly active social life he hid from them to thank for that. He'll admit that he's a little distracted, though.

“As I was saying,” Iwai starts, “Shido plans to go after Okumura’s daughter next to send him a message, and you know that Okumura is one of our biggest benefactors.”

Akira furrows his eyebrows as he takes another bite. “Why Okumura? He’s a businessman.”

“Who is interested in entering the political world. Once Shido caught wind of that––“

“He had to eliminate the competition,” Akira finishes. He’s met Okumura’s daughter before. She’s sweet, if a little quiet, with an aura that exudes a simpler elegance than the rich upbringing she hails from. Something sour swirls in the bottom of his stomach.

Shido wants her dead just to send Okumura a message.

“What do you want me to do?” Akira asks.

“We just need you to tail him for now. Get as much information about him as you can,” Iwai replies.

Akira eyes the photographs and notes laid out before Iwai. “It seems you already have enough on him, though.”

Iwai shakes his head. “Not enough.  _Oyassan_  needs to know which clan Shido is using. He’s probably bribing them… He  _has_  to be working with one.”

 _Of course he is_ , Akira thinks. He isn't surprised that someone like Shido would resort to working with the yakuza, but he's more surprised that the clan didn't refuse the offer.The families in this region agreed on a mutual honor code, one of the rules explicitly forbidding involvement with anybody in the law. How Shido even managed to come in contact with a clan is beyond Akira, but a politician’s potential connections are virtually limitless. He wouldn’t be surprised if the young man in the photo was even helping Shido out somehow. 

Akira points a finger at the young man in the photo. “Do you know who this is?”

Iwai stares at the young man before digging around the pile and pulls out another photograph. He's in clearer detail, kneeling above a dead body, his eyes lidded and glazed over with something faraway and dark.

“Goro Akechi, I think,” Iwai replies. He picks up another photo, then another until he has about five with said young man. “Pretty involved with Shido. Why? You thinkin’ of something?”

Akira hums, desperately trying to ignore the way the pounding in his head increases until it feels like something is trying to break through the bone. “I’ll figure something out.”

Iwai smiles, the toothpick in between his teeth jutting to the side. “That’s a good boy.”

Akira rolls his eyes, but he smiles as he bites into the potato. He looks over the photo again, chewing slowly. He needs to figure out why he’s been having dreams about a man he’s never met before while also getting information about Shido’s involvement with the yakuza. Two birds, one stone. He grins. He’s always been good at multitasking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm always a slut for soulmates and reincarnation au's, and shuake practically screams soulmates. It was only a matter of time before I wrote something like this. Also expect a little bit of iwashu because I'm thirsty af oops (only if you squint like real hard tho).


	2. Chapter 2

Lying, Akira learns very early on in his life, is a lot like acting. He prides himself on his talent to slip between personas in any given situation. He’s a chameleon that will play whatever part he has to. He can be a quiet confidant and best friend, or a possible ex-convict with a well-timed scowl, or a terrified boy with trembling shoulders and tears stinging his eyes. He could have majored in acting with a skill like this.

So, when Iwai asks Akira if he has something planned, he’s already going through which character will be best to introduce to Goro, which mask will be the one Goro can trust.

Acting, Akira learns much later, is something that he’s gotten so lost in that he eventually forgot who he truly was. As one of Iwai’s informants, he comes in contact with too many people he’d rather not meet again, but it’s part of the job, so he learned that a hundred personas was necessary. It’s dangerous, but high-risk gambles yield high rewards, and he can attend college without having to worry about student loans. He can work on his own time, and not to mention the protection Iwai provides has saved him more times than he can count.

Akira sits in the campus library, catching up on some readings for his philosophy class, but he can’t focus on Thomas Hobbes’ convoluted ideas and existential concepts. Instead, he closes the book and pulls his laptop out of his bag.

 _Let’s see what Goro Akechi’s deal is_ , Akira thinks as he opens a browser.

A quick internet search tells Akira that Goro Akechi works under a private detective agency, and has quite a large online following that exists just to gush about his boyish good looks and amicable charm. Through that same fanbase, he also learns that Goro attends Todai and is majoring in psychology. Digging a little deeper tells him that Goro was hired by Shido a couple months back to work a case involving an attempted assassination, but that’s as far as the search goes.

There’s something suspicious about Goro, but Akira can’t even begin place it. There’s something there, it’s just a matter of putting a name to it.

Akira looks up the office that Goro works in and decides to stake it out after class.

//

The building where Goro’s office is located is stout in comparison to the taller and sleeker buildings nearby. Dried water stains run down the walls from the roof, and paint chips away in some corners. A giant mural sprawls up the side of the building, a red and white recreation of the Great Wave Off Kanagawa painting. It’s somehow charming.

Luckily, there’s a cafe directly across from the building, so Akira orders a coffee, takes a book out of his bag, and settles into a seat outside the cafe looking out across the street. He’s barely ten minutes into the book before his phone pings. A quick glance at the screen tells him it’s a text from Iwai.

 **Gun Daddy:** _I got some information on that Akechi guy if you’re still interested in that lead._

 **Akira Kurusu:** _I can’t believe you’re cheating on me?_

 **Gun Daddy:** _Don’t be like that. You know you’re my favorite informant._

Akira holds back a laugh and takes a sip from his coffee. He types out a quick reply.

 **Akira Kurusu:** _That’s what I like to hear. So what do you have?_

 **Gun Daddy:** _Shido hired Akechi to find some wannabe assassin, but he kept hiring Akechi even after they caught the guy. Might be worth looking into._

Akira purses his lips. That’s why there are so many pictures of Goro with Shido. Though, that isn’t completely unheard of. It’s possible that Shido could have hired Goro again to predict and prevent future assassinations. He takes another sip of coffee, staring at the building and willing Goro to show himself.

The door opens and Goro walks out, slinging a backpack across his shoulders. Akira’s eyes widen, and he hurries to pack his things and follow Goro. The street is narrow enough to jog across, and soon enough, he’s a couple yards behind Goro. Akira is careful to blend into the crowd while still keeping an eye on Goro. He pulls his phone out of his pocket, and Akira is tempted to walk closer to listen in, but he decides to keep his distance. If he wants to use Goro to get the information he needs on Shido, he’ll have to wait a little longer before introducing himself. He just hopes Shido doesn’t plan to kill Okumura’s daughter too soon.

When Akira blinks, a million visions flash before his eyes, a million different scenarios, but there is one thing that remains constant: Goro Akechi.

When he blinks again, he feels like his breath was knocked out of his lungs. It feels like there’s a hole in his chest, growing wider until he’s gasping. He walks to the side, ducking into an alleyway, and leans against the cool wall. His chest constricts as blood rushes in his ears., a tidal wave that threatens to submerge him completely. His vision begins to darken at the edges. The idle chatter that floats up from the crowd is drowned out into a low buzz of white noise.

Akira feels like he’s going to throw up. His hand flies to his mouth in a feeble attempt to hold himself together. He doubles over, trying to regain at least some form of composure. He doesn’t realize he’s crying until the tears drop onto the lenses of his glasses. He takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes, still surprised when the back of his hand comes back wet.

Why is he even crying?

Akira wipes his eyes with the heels of his palms and takes several deep breaths. He pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut, as he waits for his mind to stop spinning. When he opens his eyes, the world is normal again.

Akira isn’t one to believe in the supernatural, but he’s sure there’s _something_ tying him and Goro together.

//

Akira learns Goro’s class schedule through his…more dedicated fans. On Mondays and Wednesdays, he has an abnormal psychology class at eight in the morning, a statistics class right after at nine, and an art history class at eleven. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, he has two more psychology classes at nine and ten. Everyday, he goes to work at two after lunch, except on Fridays, when he doesn’t have class, so he goes at nine.

It’s almost how scary how detailed the accounts can be, but Akira is grateful for the resources nonetheless.

On Wednesday, Akira sits at the back of Goro’s statistics class––which he realizes upon walking inside is more like a small auditorium. There are easily about two hundred students in the class. There’s no way Goro would be able to tell that Akira doesn’t belong there. Akira isn’t a fan of the early time, but he has to do this for the job, so he holds back a yawn and sits through a lecture about probability and mutual exclusivity.

An hour later, Akira stretches in his seat as people file out. He scans the auditorium for that familiar head of tawny hair. He catches Goro walking up the aisles to the exit, his eyes faraway and almost sullen-looking. Akirahurries out of his seat and hurries to catch Goro before he leaves. Akira never knew how difficult it was to walk against a tide of people until now.

Before Akira knows it, he’s stopped in front of Goro. He thought he’d be prepared after what happened yesterday, but he’s overcome by the urge to either hold onto him as tight as he can or push him off the nearest cliff. It’s so strong that he finds himself frozen in place, his thoughts coming to a stuttering halt. Goro looks up, rusty eyes meeting dark charcoal, and he almost stumbles back. He blinks, composing himself.

“Oh. Um. Hi? Can…I help you?” Goro asks.

Akira sees the gears working in Goro’s mind, subtle in the way that his eyes twitch and his pupils go wide.

“So… I wasn’t able to come to class for the last couple weeks and I was wondering… Can you help me out?” Akira asks, rubbing the back of his neck, almost embarrassed. He’s surprised by how even his voice sounds when he speaks.

Goro blinks, but then he smiles, charming and so painfully fake that Akira wants to drop everything and punch Goro’s face just to make him stop.

“Of course. I can email you my notes if you’d like,” Goro replies.

Akira smiles. “Really? Thanks.”

Before he can say anything else, Goro takes him by the crook of the elbow and leads him outside. Suddenly, Akira is thrown into Shibuya station, except it’s…not. It’s darker, and the walls themselves seem to be pulsing with something sinister. The sharp scent of blood permeates from the floor. Deep cries echo against the walls from beyond the shadows that the tracks disappear into, unworldly and sorrowful. Goro stands beside Akira, wearing a bright red mask, and he’s younger and looser and more excited and eager to prove himself to Akira, his hand holding onto the crook of Akira’s elbow.

Akira doesn’t even realize they’re alone now until Goro stops and lets go, the warmth still radiating from that spot.

“I know you,” Goro says, not quite accusatory. He’s stating an objective fact.

Cold fear pulses through Akira’s body, and he begins to doubt himself. Can Goro see right through his mask? Or does he remember just like Akira does?

Akira feels his throat constrict. “We’re in the same stats class.”

Goro’s face is carefully neutral, his eyebrows furrowing in thought. His eyes flit around Akira’s face, searching for an answer they aren’t even sure they know the question to. Akira shifts his balance between his feet, not quite sure how to handle this situation. He wasn’t prepared. He was never good at improv.

“No… From somewhere else,” Goro says, and then adds almost like an afterthought, “We seem to share some kind of bond.”

And who is Akira to deny the truth?

Goro’s eyes flick up to meet Akira’s, burning with an intensity so furious that Akira tenses up.“You don’t…really need my notes, do you? You feel the same way. That’s why you came to me, isn’t it?”

“And if that were true?” Akira asks.

Goro smiles again, choking back a surprised laugh, as his hand flies up to cover his mouth. “Throwing the question back at me. You haven’t changed, Akira.”

They both freeze.

Akira searches Goro’s face, but he seems just as surprised as Akira. His eyes are wider than the moon, his face pale as a sheet.

“That’s…not your name, is it?” Goro asks, his voice as quiet as a whisper. "Don't tell me that's actually your name."

Akira decides to take a leap of faith because at this point, what other choice does he have? “Do you believe in reincarnation?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Iwai, when he first worked with Akira: don’t save my real name in your phone  
> Akira: im not a dumbass  
> Also Akira: *saves Iwai’s number as Gun Daddy*


	3. Chapter 3

If Akira has to reveal the theory he has about reincarnations to make Goro trust him, he’ll take it. He knows an opportunity when he sees one, and to turn down something like this would easily be one of the bigger mistakes of his life, right up there with letting his friends peer pressure him into breaking and entering into an amusement park at night back in high school.

(Akira remembers scaling the twenty foot fence in under ten seconds and grinning at his friends’ awestruck faces when he jumped down on the other side, but that was the first time he ever attempted something like that, and he didn’t know how to tell them that without sounding like he was born doing parkour.)

Goro stares at Akira, still surprised and confused and searching for answers. “Reincarnation? Isn’t…real? You’re joking, right?”

Akira shakes his head, and his voice dips lower, his eyes darting everywhere because he can’t bear to look into Goro’s uncertain doe eyes. “They come in dreams, don’t they? The memories?”

Goro’s eye twitches again. He’s still waiting for the punchline to the joke Akira didn’t tell. It’s obvious they both feel this deep connection between them, and this can’t possibly be formed between two complete strangers. When Goro finally realizes that there is no punchline, he sighs. He opens his mouth to say something, but he’s interrupted by his phone ringing. He gives Akira an apologetic smile, a soft “Sorry, I have to take this”, and steps away from Akira. Goro’s voice is hushed when he speaks, but the hallway is narrow and Akira can still pick up what he’s saying if he really listens.

“Good afternoon, I–– Of course, I’ve–– Yes, sir… I’ll be right there.”

Goro ends the short call, and he stares at the screen, his eyes distant and tinged with sadness. He meets Akira’s eyes and puts on that fake smile again. Akira hates how it rubs him the wrong way.

“Kurusu-san, right?” Goro asks, and Akira, upon hearing his name said like that, so impersonal and distant, knows somewhere deep in his core that he hates it, that it’s wrong.

Akira nods nonetheless.

“I hate to keep you longer than necessary, but I’d like to discuss this with you in further detail later. May I have your number?” Goro asks.

Akira nods again, fumbling with his notebook in his bag, and rips out a piece of paper. Thankfully, Goro hands him a pen. He feels Goro’s eyes on him as he writes his phone number.

Akira remembers Goro’s eyes as he pressed the pistol against Akira’s forehead, triumphant but also lit with a burning rage behind all that. His hand freezes, and he swears he could almost feel something bubbling and prickling like thorns and demanding to be released just underneath his skin. It claws at him, gently persistent like it’s about to rip through paper.

“Is something wrong?” Goro asks, his voice quietly concerned.

Akira shakes his head and finishes writing his number. He hands the paper and pen to Goro, but flinches as soon as their hands touch. It feels like he’s been caught up in a typhoon, swept up in a flurry of memories long forgotten.

One glance at Goro tells Akira that he’s experiencing the same thing.

“I’ll see you later, Akechi-san,” Akira says, and then, on an impulse that’s altogether strange but so incredibly familiar at the same time, smirks with a confidence that’s a little uncharacteristic of him and adds, “Don’t wait too long to call, alright?”

Akira is already rushing out of the building before he can see Goro’s reaction. He finds himself in the quad before he knows it. With a deep sigh, he sits on one of the benches and has to take a moment to himself because did he just say that? To a man who may or may not be questioning their collective sanity right now? He takes his face into his hands and rubs his eyes with his palms.

This is going to be a long job.

//

_The bass pounds in Akira’s body, shaking him to his very core. Sweat rolls down his temples as he loses his body to the beat, spinning on the toes of his shoes. The shouts and jeers coming from the crowd is enough to drown out the rush of blood in his ears and the lingering doubts in his mind. When the song comes to a close, he holds his hand out to Goro, challenging him with a smile as he catches his breath. His smile widens when Goro takes his hand, pulling him closer, and Akira almost wishes Goro wasn’t wearing that godforsaken red hoodie._

_“Your turn, Pretty Boy,” Akira whispers, squeezing his hand around Goro’s._

_Goro looks at Akira with a raised eyebrow and the slightest upturned curve of his lips._

Akira wakes up to his phone ringing on his bedside table. He squints into the screen to look at the caller (it’s Iwai), then the time (it’s 1:18 AM). He stifles a yawn as he answers the phone.

“What is it?” Akira asks.

“Sorry, but I need you to come in right now,” Iwai replies. He’s agitated, an edge to his voice that’s urgent and sharp and demanding.

Akira bites back a scathing remark about how he’d rather be sleeping, but he pinches the bridge of his nose and squeezes his eyes shut instead. “Yeah. Sure.”

Iwai ends the call before Akira can say anything else.

It isn’t unusual for Iwai to ask Akira to come into the shop, but it  _is_  unusual for him to ask on such short notice, especially at such an ungodly hour. Something is going down tonight.

Akira swings his legs off his bed and sits up, blinking away sleep from the edges of his vision. He gets changed, silently mourning the hours of sleep he’s going to be losing because of this. He leaves his apartment building and begins walking towards the main street to search for a taxi.

The ride to Shibuya almost lulls Akira back to sleep. He presses his head against the glass window, his eyes trailing the line of streetlights that blur past. The only thing keeping him awake is the curiosity and anxiety over what’s so important that Iwai needed him to come in at one in the morning.

Twenty minutes later, Akira walks up to Iwai’s shop. It’s just like any other yakuza shopfront. On the surface, he sells model guns to enthusiasts, but after hours are reserved strictly for the clan’s business transactions. Located at the end of a dimly lit alleyway, Akira wouldn’t normally find himself at the shop this time of night, let alone any time of the day, but Iwai’s urgency was enough to drag Akira’s ass out of bed.

Akira pushes the door open, the bells loud and jarring in the midnight silence. Iwai glances at him and snorts.

“What a serious face you’re making,” Iwai says. He hands Akira a can of some fruity energy drink, which Akira gratefully chugs.

Akira has a lot on his mind right now, so he figures he doesn’t need to apologize for the Resting Bitch Face. “I almost fell asleep in the taxi.”

Iwai’s smile turns sheepish. “Sorry, but I need your help.”

Akira hums, walking behind the counter and dropping the empty can into the recycling bin by his feet. “This better be good.”

Iwai leads Akira to the back room and hands him a black garment bag. Akira unzips it and peers inside, then back up at Iwai with a raised eyebrow. His fingers go to feel the fabric of the suit and it feels more expensive than him.

“Not what I expected when I began working for you, but I’m not complaining,” Akira says as he zips the bag up again.

“Something happened to Ryou, so I need you to take over this job for him.”

Akira frowns. As far as he knows, Ryou is the only other informant working for Iwai. He’s more involved with the clan than Akira is, so his sudden disappearance is a little concerning, but Akira signed up for this. He doesn’t have the option to back out now. He likes to think he has his own freedom considering he doesn’t have a formal place in the complex web of crime that is Iwai’s world, but he usually has little choice when it comes to this.

“What is it?” Akira asks.

“Some up-and-coming gang has been operating in our territory in Kabukicho. Been exploiting some tourists, too. Ryou said the leader Nakayama frequents a bar in Golden Gai. You know Albatross? The tourist trap one?” Iwai asks.

A lot of the bars in the tight alleyways of Golden Gai have become pretty touristy lately, but Albatross is the most popular one among foreigners. The interior is fancy with three compact stories packed full of Western decor, framed replicas of European artwork hanging from the maroon wallpaper, glass chandeliers spilling warm light over the fleur de lis accents crawling up the walls, and maybe a taxidermied antelope head mounted to the wall somewhere. The drinks tend to be more expensive than surrounding bars, but the price matches the atmosphere of stifled, ritzy glamour the bar gives off.

“Yeah, I know of it,” Akira replies. “So what am I doing?”

“He’s meeting up with someone named Takeshi tonight at 2:30. I need you to keep your phone on so I can listen in. Think you can handle it?” Iwai twirls a toothpick between his fingers. The only thing betraying his unsettled nerves, Akira notices.

Akira shrugs. It’s not difficult. This isn’t the first time he’s had to sit in a bar and look pretty. “I don’t have much of a choice now, do I?”

Iwai gives Akira a look that borders on worrisome. “Go change. I’ll drop you off at the entrance of Golden Gai.”

Iwai heads back to the front, closing the door with a soft click as it slides back into the frame. Akira tightens his grip on the suit and sighs, but he won’t deny the rush of excitement that courses through him. This may not be the reason he started working as an informant for Iwai, but he likes the masks he gets to put on for jobs like this.

//

Akira sits at the bar on the first floor of Albatross, sipping a beer in one hand and calling Iwai with his other hand. Nakayama sits a couple seats away, swirling a delicate cup of shochu in his hand. His hair is slicked back with too much gel, and his suit doesn’t fit him properly (granted, Akira’s own suit doesn’t fit him, only because it’s tailored to fit Ryou, but they’re close to the same size anyway). Nakayama slouches into the counter, his forearms pressed against the creaking wood, his elbows spread wide apart like he’s trying to take up more space than he normally does. Like he’s claiming territory that isn’t his.

He looks like every yakuza stereotype in the media combined. It’d be funny if it weren’t so pathetic.

“Is Takeshi there yet?” Iwai asks when he finally answers.

“No,” Akira replies. Takeshi is late, but if Nakayama is annoyed by this, he doesn’t look it.

Iwai hums. “Alright, just put your phone down then.”

“You’re paying for my drink, right?” Akira asks, swirling patterns in the condensation on the bottle with his thumb.  _And the hours of sleep I’m losing_ , he thinks. He sips his beer and makes a face. Bad choice of drink first thing when he wakes up.

“Just give me the receipt.”

“Was kinda hoping you’d come meet me here,” Akira says, his voice bordering between sultry and ridiculous.

“Flirting won’t get you anywhere,” Iwai replies, but his voice is light and Akira can hear the smile behind his words.

“It’s not like I’m trying to get you in my bed at the end of the night. I’ll be asleep by then,” Akira says, hoping he doesn’t sound too defensive. The door opens and a stiff breeze blows through. When Akira turns to look, Takeshi walks inside and takes a seat beside Nakayama. “Alright, I'll see you later.”

Akira places his phone face down on the counter and sips his beer. Together, they look like a pair of cliched gangsters straight out of an action manga. It’s obvious they’re trying too hard to appear like people they’re not.

Then again, so is Akira, but he’s better at this than they are.

“Can I get a whiskey,” Takeshi says as he settles into his seat, less of a request and more of a demand. The bartender nods. He turns to Nakayama. “I need another month.”

Nakayama hums in disapproval. “You know we can’t have that. You haven’t paid the last couple of months either. The interest is really piling up.”

Takeshi sighs and rubs the back of his neck. The bartender places a glass of whiskey in front of him. He sips it, hissing as he swallows.

“You’re lucky I’ve let you off for this long, Takeshi-san,” Nakayama drawls. He downs the rest of his shochu and holds up his glass to signal for another. “This isn’t up for negotiation anymore.”

Takeshi turns to face Nakayama fully. “Please. I just need more time.”

Akira almost shakes his head. The begging isn’t going to help if Nakayama knows what he’s doing.

Nakayama tuts as the bartender pours more shochu into his glass. “You’re the financial director of a major fast food company. No one will notice if you take a couple hundred thousand yen out.”

“I…” Takeshi’s shoulders tremble and his head bows down in shame. “I got laid off. I’ve been looking for a new job, but…”

Nakayama clicks his tongue. “Now that’s unfortunate, isn’t it?” He takes a long sip of shochu, as if he’s considering the claim. “I guess we’ll have to take your daughter, then. We’ll put her to good work.”

Takeshi’s head shoots up, and the gasp he makes is quiet and horrified. “No! No, please not her. She just… She just turned eighteen.”

Nakayama slams his empty glass on the counter. Akira jumps up, and the other patrons look at them. He glances to the side and sees Nakayama glare at Takeshi with a scowl that bares his teeth like a wolf.

“Either pay the cash or hand us your daughter. This isn’t up for negotiation, Takeshi,” Nakayama snarls.

“Hey,” the bartender says, standing in front of them. “If you’re going to cause a scene, do it outside. I have a bar to run and alcohol worth more than my paycheck if they break.”

Nakayama turns his glare to the bartender, who doesn’t back down, but he doesn’t say anything else. He glances at Akira, who quickly goes to sipping his beer again. He frowns before turning to Takeshi again.

“Let’s go. We’re taking this outside,” Nakayama growls. He takes Takeshi’s arm and drags him out of the bar.

Akira almost gets out of his seat to follow them, but he picks up his phone instead. “Did you get any of that?”

“It’s enough proof,” Iwai replies. Someone shouts in the background, slurred and drunk, before glass shatters on concrete. “Stay where you are.”

Akira smirks. “Are you coming to buy me that drink?”

“Don’t hold your breath,” Iwai replies and hangs up.

The door opens again, the breeze gentler and quieter than before. Akira turns his head, half-expecting to see Iwai. Goro walks in, his light brown hair pulled back into a low ponytail. Akira’s throat closes up. His heart pounds in his chest again. If he listens closely, he can hear the faint roar of a crowd and bass heavy enough to shake his entire body. He takes another sip of beer if only to calm his nerves.

“Kurusu-san?” Goro asks. Akira looks up and pretends to look surprised. Goro sits in the seat next to Akira with that same smile he had earlier. “What are you doing here?”

Akira smiles back. “Waiting for someone. And you? No offense, but you don’t look like someone who frequents Golden Gai on a weeknight.”

Amusement flickers behind Goro’s mask, a little more than the smile and edging just close enough to a laugh. “I happened to pass by the area and was in the mood for a drink.” He raises a hand to get the bartender’s attention. “I’d like a plum tequila cocktail please.”

The bartender nods as he pulls the bottle off the shelf.

Akira hums and takes another sip of beer. “Good choice.”

Goro faces him, tilting his head. His eyes sweep down Akira’s body, then slowly back up. Akira basks in the attention. He knows he looks good in this suit, Ryou’s or not. The bartender brings a glass full of lavender-tinted lcohol with a thin black straw sticking out.

“Dressed for a special occasion?” Goro asks with that pleasant smile.

Akira shrugs. “Something like that, I guess.”

“So I’ve been thinking,” Goro starts, swirling the drink around with his straw. His attention isn’t fully on Akira anymore, so Akira faces the wall of alcohol bottles in front of him instead. “About what you said earlier today.”

“About reincarnation?”

Goro hums in approval as he sips his drink. “Yes.”

Akira waits for Goro to continue. The seconds stretch into little eternities, a single moment that’s suddenly a hundred. He sips his beer. He doesn’t mind waiting in silence.

Eventually, Goro turns to look at Akira, curiosity getting the better of him. “Kurusu-san, if we  _are_  being reincarnated, do you happen to know how many lives we’ve led?”

Akira doesn’t know if it’s the rose lighting or the warm buzz igniting in the center of his stomach and oozing molten lava to his extremities, but Goro’s eyes seem to be lit with hellfire. The soft jazz music floating from the speakers isn’t enough to drown out Akira’s heartbeat, and it makes him want to pull Goro closer. Makes him want to reach out and touch him. Makes him want to know if this is real.

But then the door opens and the spell is broken. Akira breaks eye contact with Goro to look at the door. Iwai walks through, dressed in a similar suit, but the top buttons of his shirt are loosened. He catches Akira’s eye and nods outside. Goro glances between Akira and Iwai, his eyes knowing and, if Akira looks close enough, hiding a hint of disappointment.

“Sorry, I have to go, but it was good to see you again, Akechi-san,” Akira says. He downs the rest of his beer and stands up. “But to answer your question.” He places a hand on Goro’s shoulder and leans down to whisper in his ear, not failing to catch the way Goro shivers beneath his touch. “Millions.”

When Akira meets Iwai at the door, he smiles at the raised eyebrow Iwai gives him. He winks, but Iwai still looks bemused. The door swings shut, and Akira walks down the quiet alleyway, fully awake with a warm bounce in his step, not quite tipsy yet but not completely sober anymore. Akira spins on the toes of his shoe to face Iwai with a grin.

“And you said flirting wouldn’t get me anywhere.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me this entire chapter: take a fucking sip babes


	4. Chapter 4

Akira follows Iwai through the tight alleyways of Golden Gai, loosening his tie and undoing the top buttons of his shirt. It’s too warm in the confined and constricting walls. He sighs as his head spins from the beer. If he had food in his stomach, he’d be fine, but he can’t remember the last time he ate. His eyes pulsate every time his heart beats. His vision swims, Iwai’s back undulating like a heat wave rising from the ground.

Iwai turns around to check on Akira, but if he’s concerned, his frown doesn’t show it. His voice is low, but it’s loud as the sound bounces against the narrow walls. “Was that who I thought it was?”

Akira hums, running his fingers along the plastered walls, occasionally picking at the peeling paint. They walk underneath a neon sign, the buzz filling Akira’s ears, and when he blinks, the bright red light that lights up Iwai’s back makes him look drenched in blood.

“Yeah. Goro Akechi himself. Even gave him my number.”

Iwai turns around again with a proud grin, and it almost looks like thick red blood is spilling from his lips. “That was quick. Good job.”

Akira hums again. Thinking is too much of a strain on his mind right now. “Where are we going?”

“Gettin’ something to eat,” Iwai replies without turning around. “One drink already has you stumbling like an idiot.”

Akira smiles, matching the beat of his footsteps to Iwai’s. “Never pegged you for the worrying type.”

“You wanted to be my favorite informant. Just gotta make sure you’re still fit for the job,” Iwai snorts and walks down an even narrower alley.

Akira follows Iwai with a grin. Iwai means well, even if he doesn’t show it all the time. The buildings are older in this area, the patches of peeling paint bigger and more obvious. Their path is lit only by the fading neon signs and sepia-toned paper lanterns. The lowest electric cables hang just several feet above Akira’s head. The familiar scent of homemade cooking mixes with the bitterness of coffee, and Akira closes his eyes and stops for a moment to take it in. It’s a scent that brings back distant memories from…not this life.

Akira realizes, very faintly, that these memories are from another life.

A cat meows softly, and when Akira opens his eyes, he catches a flash of yellow and the jingle of a bell as a black cat hops onto a nearby trash can, blinking ocean blue eyes that seem oddly sentient. It stops to meow at him. He smiles at the cat, shoving his hands into his pockets as a breeze blows through the alleyway.

“Hey, what are you doing?” Iwai asks, and when Akira catches up to him, adds, “Makin’ friends with the locals?”

Akira grins, almost bubbling into a laugh, and glances back, but the cat is gone. “Something like that.”

Eventually, Iwai stops at a door marked only with a small wooden sign lit by a dim lamp. He slides the door open and ducks his head inside, already talking to whoever is inside. Akira looks up at the sign above the door––Leblanc, it reads in barely familiar English script––before following Iwai.

The scent of curry floods Akira’s nose as soon as he walks in, and he has to fight the overwhelming nostalgia that threatens to sweep him off his feet. As soon as his mind clear enough to really see in front of him, he sees that the inside of Leblanc is the same size as his apartment. It’s a small square of space with a U-shaped counter, nine stools surrounding the counter, and a small kitchen in the back behind a red and white _noren_ curtain. The walls are plain, except for the hooks mounted to the wall to hang coats and bags. A massive shelf stands to the side, full of jars with coffee beans and labeled in words Akira doesn’t fully recognize (Kilimanjaro this, Blue Mountain that). The owner stands behind the counter talking to Iwai, leaning back into a slouch with his arms folded above his chest.

“This is Sojiro,” Iwai says, pointing a thumb at the owner. “He owns the place.”

“Good evening,” Akira says, bowing his head a little to Sojiro. When he looks into Sojiro’s eyes, the gears begin turning in his head.

Sojiro smiles, as if much wiser beyond his years. As if he knows the answers to every question going through Akira’s head at this moment. “What can I get for you two?”

“We’ll have the specials,” Iwai replies as he pulls up a stool at the counter.

“You’re in luck. I just made a pot.”

Akira sits beside Iwai, staring at his hands in his lap. His head pounds as his mind tries to wrap itself around the memories that are bleeding through in a steady trickle.

“Did you get anything from Akechi?” Iwai asks. He twirls an unused toothpick between his fingers. He’s itching for a smoke.

Akira shakes his head. “Not much of anything yet. I just met him today.”

Iwai turns to Akira with raised eyebrows. Another twirl of the toothpick. “Today? You looked pretty close to have just met today.”

Akira leans an elbow on the counter, smirking up at Iwai. Anything to steer the conversation away from the possible cause of the impending meltdown in his mind. “Are you jealous, Iwai?”

“If you still want me to pay for your food, don’t get cocky, kid,” Iwai says with a hint of amusement.

“Well, you didn’t say no,” Akira responds. He watches Sojiro pour hot water into a filter full of coffee grounds, mesmerized by the way the coffee drips into the pot. “So what’s the whole deal with Nakayama?”

“He claims he’s a _shatei-gashira_ operating under us, but he’s only givin’ us a bad rep,” Iwai replies. He puts the toothpick into his mouth, chewing on one end of it. “ _Oyassan_ has been on my ass ever since we caught wind of him.”

Akira hums, slouching against the counter, his head resting on his forearms. “And why haven’t you dealt with him yet?”

Iwai taps his fingers on the counter, thoughtful. “He does good business. Can’t waste potential like him.”

“So you’re looking to recruit him… And if he refuses?” Akira asks. His head is still pounding. His skin prickles.

Iwai shrugs. “Whatever it is, I’m not lookin’ forward to it.”

“This is why you have other people to do it for you.”

Akira’s stomach growls and he sighs. He’ll admit this isn’t his proudest moment. Iwai opens his mouth to say something, but an insistent meow coming from outside interrupts him. Akira turns to look at the doors. Through the glass panels, he sees the cat he saw earlier pawing at the door.

Sojiro leans out of the kitchen, holding a ladle dripping with curry in his hand. “Do you mind opening the door? It’s the cat.”

Akira stands up from his stool to slide the door open. The cat brushes past his legs, its tail swishing behind it. It looks up at Akira, meowing as if to say its thanks. He closes the door and sits back on his stool.

“You still have this mangy thing?” Iwai asks, half-annoyed and half-amused, as the cat hops onto the counter to lick at its paws.

It meows indignantly, its blue eyes seeming to convey something deadly to Iwai.

Sojiro grunts. “He kept coming back here.”

“So you gave him a collar,” Iwai says. He reaches out to pet the cat, but it hisses at him before he can even get close. “Alright, alright, I’ll leave you alone, damn.”

Akira stares at the cat, and it stares back at him, blinking slowly. He holds out a tentative hand, and the cat leans forward to press its face against his open palm. Something warm flutters in his chest as he scratches the underside of the cat’s chin. “What’s his name?”

“Doesn’t have one.”

“You gave him a collar, but not a name?” Iwai snorts. “What’s the point, old man?”

Sojiro walks out of the kitchen carrying two plates of curry and rice. “Giving him a name means I’m accepting full responsibility of him.”

Akira finds himself smiling as the cat purrs. Sojiro places a plate of steaming curry in front of Akira and Iwai, followed by two cups of coffee.

“Curry and coffee?” Akira asks. He realizes how rude he probably sounds only after the words come out of his mouth. He clears his throat. “That’s…interesting.”

Iwai snickers and picks up the spoon as Sojiro frowns in disapproval. “This is the only thing on his menu, but he’ll cook whatever you want as long as you bring the ingredients.”

Akira takes a spoonful into his mouth, and the chaos swirling in him seems to calm down enough for him to gather his bearings. The spices that mingle with the subtle sweetness remind him of home. A home not in the countryside he grew up in and not in the tiny apartment he lives in now, but a home in a dusty attic above a sleepy cafe. It reminds him of early mornings waking up to a familiar and fuzzy weight on his chest, the scent of warm spices and coffee wafting up between the creaking floorboards, and the sound of boiling water and chopping vegetables and the delicate clink of silverware on ceramic. It reminds him of a family forged through abuse and injustice. A family grown from the tears they shed.

Akira sees Goro standing just at the peripheral of that memory and reaching out, but not enough to touch them. He sees Goro on the cold ground, blue and black swirling around his beaten body, as he peels off his cracked mask. He sees Goro pointing a gun at this family, snarling at them like a rabid animal, scared and scrambling to build his defenses again.

“You’ve been starin’ at your food for a while.” Iwai nudges Akira’s forearm, snapping him out of his trance. Akira looks at Iwai, who stares at him with worry in his eyes. “You okay? I thought you just had a beer.”

“Sorry… I’m fine.” Akira shakes his head, then smiles up at Sojiro, who’s looking down at him almost expectantly with crossed arms. “This is really good, thank you.”

Sojiro’s eyes widen just the tiniest bit in surprise, but then he chuckles, smug. “Of course. I wouldn’t still be in business if I was feeding my customers shit.”

Akira eats another tentative spoonful, mentally preparing for another wave of memories, but nothing else comes to him. He almost sighs in relief as he continues eating. He glances at the cat, and if he didn’t know any better, he’d think that this cat was possessed by some otherworldly being. Considering the possibility of reincarnation, possession may not be the weirdest thing he’s come across lately.

//

_Goro’s hands grip Akira’s throat, his eyes wide and angry. There is malice in the way his hands tremble around Akira’s rushing pulse, dangerous and angry as his fingertips squeeze the last breaths of air out of Akira’s lungs. Akira stumbles and feels his back hit the wall. His hands go up to claw at Goro’s arms. He opens his mouth to say something, anything, but all that comes out is a feeble gasp._

_“Trash like you belongs in hell,” Goro grits through his teeth. “You don’t deserve to be here.”_

_The edges of Akira’s vision begin to darken._

Akira blinks, not even realizing that he’d spaced out. His phone is ringing, the sound dull and faraway like he’s submerged beneath an entire ocean. He picks up his phone. Iwai is calling him again.

“Hey, what’s up?” Akira says. He looks out his apartment window at the traffic inching by on the street below, the setting sun bathing everything in a warm and hazy glow.

“It’s Ryou,” Iwai replies, his voice tight and strained. “Police found his body in the Meguro River a couple days ago.”

Akira’s breath hitches. He wasn’t close to Ryou personally, but he thinks the fact that they shared the same job is enough to connect them. When he thinks about the possibility that it could have been him in Ryou’s spot, he feels his stomach sink.

“He doesn’t have any other existing family on record. I need you to come with me and say you’re his friend so we can get his body,” Iwai says.

Akira frowns. He doesn’t know Ryou as much as Iwai does. The most he’s said to Ryou during the off-chance they met was a short _hi_. He can’t see what help he’ll be able to contribute. “Why can’t you do it alone?”

“You’re closer to his age. We don’t need people askin’ more questions than necessary.”

Akira sighs, stretching in his seat. “Alright. When do you need me?” There’s a knock on Akira’s front door that makes him jump to his feet. “That you?”

“Yeah,” Iwai simply replies, and Akira can hear him behind the door as he walks toward it.

Akira ends the call and swings the door open. Iwai stands in the hall, pocketing his phone. His eyes are puffy and tinged pink. His ever-present frown seems to have deepened since the last time Akira saw him. Akira doesn’t know how close Iwai and Ryou were, but when he opens his door wider to let Iwai walk inside, he lets Iwai walk into his arms. Akira isn’t even sure if this is appropriate for their relationship, but Iwai lets it happen, so Akira brings his arms around Iwai’s shoulders and holds him there.

But Akira isn’t blind. He can see through a flimsy lie when it’s thrown at him. The way Iwai shakes, noticeable only because Akira is touching him, tells Akira that Ryou’s death is affecting him more than he’s willing to admit.

//

Akira follows Iwai into the morgue. The mortician leads them down a sterile white hall, through a pair of double doors, and into a cold room. The entire walk there reeks of death and rubbing alcohol. The wall to the right is covered entirely in freezer doors. Several stainless steel tables line the floor. A body beneath a white sheet lays on the table furthest inside, and Akira has to steel his nerves.

“Is that him?” Iwai asks, his voice gruffer than usual.

“Yes,” the mortician replies with a small nod. He places his hands on the sheet, looking up at Iwai, then Akira. “I’m going to remove the sheet.”

Akira glances at Iwai in the corner of his eye, then nods. The mortician folds the sheet over so just the top of his chest is revealed, and Akira bites his bottom lip to hold back a gasp. Ryou’s skin is a pale blue and purple, bloated to the point where his face is nearly unrecognizable. Akira sees something that seems to be carved into his flesh just above his heart like a brand, the skin around the open wound blackened and bruised. It’s a single kanji character that alone means gold. It’s almost ironic with Ryou like this; there is nothing golden about him right now. Iwai is stoic as the mortician steps back, his clenched fists the only thing betraying his nerves.

“Do you, um…mind if we have a couple minutes alone?” Akira asks the mortician.

He nods and steps out of the room.

Iwai runs his hand over his face with a groan as soon as the door slides closed.

“Are you okay?” Akira asks, his hands balled into fists in his pockets.

Iwai shakes his head, his hand stopping to cover his mouth. His voice comes out muffled when he speaks. “… _Fuck_. Akira, he was just a _kid_.”

Akira nods, but this is one of the risks that comes when people tangle themselves in this world. He knows this, Ryou knew this, Iwai _should_ know this. It could have been Akira on this table instead, but Ryou was an unfortunate target, someone in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“But you see that?” Akira asks, nodding to the kanji carved into Ryou’s skin. There’s only one clan in Tokyo that uses this character for their crest. “This had to be the Kaneshiro Clan.”

“Fucking bastards,” Iwai growls, crossing his arms above his chest. The overhead fluorescent lighting make his features look harsher, casting stark shadows on his body. His sunken eyes look deeper, his jaw set in a disgusted scowl.

“Iwai,” Akira says slowly, his hand hovering close enough to almost touch Iwai’s arm. “Think about this.”

Iwai turns to Akira. The anger spilling out of him like an exploding volcano, threatening to consume everything in its path, is something Akira has never seen before, and he’s terrified of getting burned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (((yes, firearms father, just fuck me up)))
> 
> Jk. Anyway, I just started watching midnight diners on netflix and it’s so interesting??? Sojiro’s role in this and much of Leblanc is going to be inspired by that lmao.

**Author's Note:**

> Drop by my [tumblr](http://www.paradi-siac.tumblr.com) if you wanna yell with me about p5.


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